


Beneath The Vaulted Sky

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Multi, Strangers to Lovers, split timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-06-05 18:18:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: They give in her care the man who slew her betrothed. So begins Lyanna's involvement in the realm's matters. And she would be very glad for that to be the end of it. But her family has another plan altogether.AU! The reach of a bloody war does not lose its grip as long as memory lasts.





	1. i - the den of the wolf

### 278 AL

_Robert is slain and the Baratheon has fallen._

This is the first line she enters in her diary with trembling fingers in the low light of the bleeding sun. It’s orange rather than yellow, might be even red. Like blood. She wonders if Robert suffered tremendously and chides herself for asking such foolish questions after. The man had fortune on his side; Storm’s End has been captured by the King’s army and the gods only know what he does to the pitiful creatures within.

She keeps writing, her fingers moving through the motions with practiced ease. To think she loathed the exercise when the maester first assigned it to her. Walys Flowers does not read these lines. He will comment however on other assignments he gives her, such as labelling the jars in the small chamber wherein they are crammed upon shelves, or keeping a neat account book for the kitchens. Ostensibly, he will pester her about keeping up correspondence with Lady Cassana whenever a missive arrives.

Her eyes involuntarily stray to the latest one. Lady Cassana takes pride in her eldest son. She’s written about his exploits on the field of battle and praises his bravery, although her hand in subtle and her wit hidden beneath layers of platitudes and strange anecdotes. Lyanna knows what the woman hoped; that she would warm up to Robert, that her heart would accept him, even if only a smidgeon. She would laugh to think her heart so easily tamed, although to be fair, it did pound somewhat strangely when first she’d seen the man.

But Lyanna is the sort of creature whose heart engages but a moment before her mind takes over. A handsome face will not take care of her children, nor will it look after her needs. She has not replied to that letter yet because as far as she is concerned Robert’s prowess is a futile exercise in hewing down her walls.

Yet he lies slain somewhere, caked with blood and mud, and her heart, stern yet not stone, quivers in regret. He was yet young. He might have changed. For her? She catches the foolish thought and brutally pushes it out of existence. Her fingers return to the quill and the writing. She calls this her diary, but it would be more accurate to say it is the willing recipient of her joys and frustrations. Although she thinks there are more lines of frustration than anything else. How could there be aught else?

Her aunt’s voice rings in her ears, the words taunting and bitter, meant to hurt. _“Had you been meant for greatness, you would have been born a son.”_  She wants to think it’s only envy. Yet there is some accuracy to it. The sort of glory Lyanna wants is easier to achieve as a son.  What she does realise, however, is that want is not need. She might well wish to ride into battle with her brothers, but she is not so naïve as to think she’d be anything but a burden to them were she fool enough to follow through.

Battles are where men go to die. She does not want to die. Father would say she is the daughter of half-measures and he would not be mistaken. Lyanna sighs. Another wish she has is that she were a little more decided in character. Brandon is the one with wolf blood running through his veins; Lyanna has but a small touch. Ned is serious and dependable; she does just enough for it to be proper. Benjen has burning determination;  Lyanna merely firms in her refusal of Robert, in aught else she will allow the decision to others.

She does not think of herself as a contrary child; the trouble she causes is minimal. But neither is she a good daughter. Her mind screams at her to pick a path and stick to it. She cannot be straddling fences for the rest of her life. Yet here she is, sitting her fence, writing in her diary about her impression of a war her eyes have never seen. The North is too remote for bloody battles. Sometimes there are deserters though.

She has seen one or two of them brought in chains. They throw them in the dungeon and for a time where they are allowed to wither away in such harsh accommodations. Lyanna does not go down there. She had been once already and finds that insalubrious floors, rank smells and pitiful cries turn her stomach. It is no less than those men deserve though.

From Robert to common soldiery; a small smile curls her lips. It is unbecoming to write such dispassionate lines when her betrothed has been hewn even as he lay there waiting for his end. She ought to show more compassion. If only she had more to spare than the slight sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, a knot of unease twisting her innards unbearably. It is only a fraction of what she ought to be feeling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The door opens with a creak and she only has to turn her head to see the intruder. Lady Lyarra watches her daughter with sad eyes. The flush of illness lingers upon her sunken cheeks. She stands in one sharp movement, and she can almost swear she hears the snap of the folds as they fall into place. “Lady mother, what are you doing out of bed?”

“I cannot find your father anywhere.” She forgets sometimes even that Lyanna herself is her daughter.

Approaching cautiously, Lyanna reached out, “He has gone to war, lady mother. He rides with your sons.” A look of consternation crosses Lyarra Stark’s face.

“What are you saying? They are merely children.” Before she can offer any reply, Maester Walys makes his appearance, leading Lady Lyarra away with the promise of an explanation and a missive from her husband. Lyanna watches them go.

She hates it when her mother is like this. So unpredictable and so very annoying. She doesn’t want to know about the imperfections in the woman’s marriage. She doesn’t want her ideals tarnished any further.     

What can she do?

It is much later, once she lies beneath the furs that the door creaks once more. Her ire rises gently, child of heal-measures that she is, and Lyanna listens with her eyes firmly closed for the ghostly whooshes of her thin cloth. She does not disappointed. The mattress dips beneath the additional weight and slender arms wrap about her. “Branda, are you awake?” The urgent whisper pierces her sleep-fogged mind. She wishes she slept like the dead. “Branda.”

Opening her lids ever so gently, she turns an unseeing glare upon the intruder. “’Tis late.” It doesn’t matter how she tries to convince the woman of it, she will never accept that she does not speak to her sister now. “I am tired.” The words sound feeble to her own ears, untrue and deceitful. Hardening herself against the natural onset of regret she bites into the bitter fruit of deception with relish. She was not the one who started it.

“They’re forcing me to wed him.” There is a hitch in her breath. Lyanna closes her eyes. “It’s not like he needs to wed any of us to begin with. How greedy can one man be? Branda, can’t you take me with you?” Her teeth gnash together and she turns her back upon the woman. “I won’t cause trouble.”

“Go to sleep,” Lyanna snaps. There is shuffling at her back. A heaviness settles upon her, pressing her into the mattress with uncomfortable consequences. Her mother flings an arm about her waist, her soft breaths scalding the back of her neck. The woman’s fingers splay against her stomach, almost as though she seeks to feel something. It’s useless, of course. She is not Branda Stark, after all. Her lips tighten in displeasure at the stroking.

“I am certain you will have a fine son,” Lyarra speaks. “I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble.” Most deserving of her remorse is not her, but the man she so plainly hates. A good man. “I just wish mother would listen to what I have to say as well.” Lyanna doesn’t remember Arya Stark very well. There is a vague recollection of warm smiles and sweet cherries, but other than that her grandmother is a stranger. “You were very brave. Why can’t I be more like you?” Lyanna makes no response. The knot in her throat tightens and she brings her knuckles to the grim line of her mouth pressing against the sounds seeking liberation. “Branda?” If she could just hold out a little longer. “Have you fallen asleep?”

There are no more words after. Her mother simply tightens her hold, as though Lyanna were the security blanket she has long been searching for and her breathing patterns out until it is fairly regular, uncontrolled and decidedly indicative of slumber. Relief floods her. Lyanna stays as she is for a few more minutes before she begins itching for an escape.

Evading is an acquired skill. She moves with uneasy diligence until she manages to unwind her mother’s fingers from the cloth of her garment and push the entire arm away. Slowly, so as to not wake her, she slips out of bed, her feet meeting carpet. The roughness of the rushes scratches against the bareness of her skin and she blindly searches for the slippers. They are where she has left them and Lyanna hastily puts them on.

From here it is much easier. The well-oiled hinges of the door do not squeak overloud when she leaves. The hallway seems somehow strange in the low glows of the sconces, but she traverses it nonetheless, eager for solitude. The chamber she reaches receives her with open arms and an unlocked door. She enters without hesitation, bringing down the bar once she is assured of relative comfort.

Her eyes naturally fall to the most magnificent piece in the chamber. It is not the original furniture, for though there is a rotting frame stored somewhere away, this bed comes from the South. It seems out of place, with its minute detailed carvings, in the otherwise sparse environment. How many lords of Winterfell had lain to rest upon it? How many had been born and died within it? She climbs it with some apprehension and draws the furs about her shoulder. The sweet honeyed scent of her mother’s soaps clings to the inside of her nostrils when her head hits the pillow. Close by is the fainter, faded scent of her father, something strong and comforting, Lyanna thinks, her body moving over to his side of the bed. It feels more comfortable in this spot, where she is protected. As much as father will protect her, in any event.

She dares not think too long upon it before, but since sleep does not seem to return, she has to. Robert is dead and the Baratheon have fallen. It is a grievous defeat, so much so that she wonders what the Prince will do. It was Robert who aligned himself with the heir to the throne; how foolish of him not to have protected himself better. Did he trust there would be other men to pick up if he fell? As for her, she will doubtlessly have to wed the younger brother, the graceless one. Although it could be this is a blessing; Stannis has yet to lie about his nature.  If he lives. The last one is much too young to wed, although who knows how far her father is willing to push matters.

If not, who else is there? Vassals, of course. There are plenty of those. She prefers none to the others. Unlike her lady mother Lyanna has no prior engagement to lament. She settles in a firmer manner against her pillows and turns until she lies on her back, eyeing the dark ceiling blankly. No matter how she looks at it, these words have already decided her fate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Lyanna drinks her tea unhurriedly, the bittersweet tang sliding uneasily down her throat. Whatever herbs she has crushed into it this morning she must never again touch. How silly to insist that she make her own when her head is such a mess. Nevertheless, she drinks the brew with small sips and contemplates the taste as her eyes drift over columns of numbers. Mother is still asleep in her own chamber, no doubt needing as much rest as she can get.

“There is a missive from my lord,” Walys Flowers continues, placing before her a neatly folded parchment. “I took the liberty of ordering the messenger to a meal and bed until an answer has been decided upon.” Strange and stranger still, her father rarely if ever expects her input and when he does it is more a chance to test her as far as she can make out.

“Very well, good maester.” She unfolds the message and begins reading. It is much as she’d expected, it is another test. She does not mind, for most of these are practical issues one might have to deal with within their own keep. Although applied to a context such as theirs she does find a few choices which she would rather not face. “One grows weary of so much fighting.” Her dispassionate comment elicits a sound of approval from the man at her side. “My lord wishes to know whether I would rather supply the army with more grain or if I should choose to break into our stores for those left behind.”

“And which would you rather, my lady?” Had Robert a good meal before his demise? She hopes it is the case. She pushes the thought away and looks up from her father’s missive.

“Feed the soldiers by all means. Their looting is sure to set everyone back otherwise.” Beastly creatures, unfed soldiers; Lyanna would not wish to take her chances with such a lot and the gods know whatever scant protection is afforded her is absolutely lacking in the case of the smallfolk. Her eyebrows knit together as she continues to stare at the maester. “Am I to wed Stannis Baratheon now?”

“What a question to put forth, my lady.” Walys Flowers has kind eyes. Lyanna wishes the world were as kind. He reached out to gently pat her shoulder. “Our lord wrote naught back of such matters.” But still, the maester ought to know. Lyanna rolls her shoulders gently, dislodging the hand still of her person. “I trust he will look towards our best interests whatever decision he comes to.” What can she say to that? Father will doubtlessly frame his plans in such a manner. And the good maester is much of the opinion the North had been remote for far too long.

“I do not wish to leave my home.” It’s a whisper. The keep has been in her hands for many a year now. Domestic matters pass through her chambers, servants look to her for orders and the household depends on her decisions. It has been this way ever since mother’s decline. She half-entertains the notion that no one notices who acts in what way in any event and all of her work is without much value; it has to be if they would so readily offer her up.

“As is natural.” Her whisper must have been very loud indeed. “But my lady, consider my words for a moment. In this house you are the lord’s daughter, with only little claim. A husband would offer you his home, strengthen your claim by his sons and daughter and you would never have to fear your place usurped. Your brother will take a wife, eventually, and then all tasks you do now shall fall to her.”

“Even so, maester, she can never claim to love these halls as I do.” Her eyes shift from her lap to the man.

“She may yet claim more love, lady. ‘Tis this woman’s sons and daughters who will dwell in these here keep and further her interests. And you shall take a piece of the North with you wherever you go, just as your brother’s lady wife will bring a piece of her home with her.”

She wishes the words did not incense her quite so. Lyanna bites into her lower lip to keep the protests from falling. It is useless to argue since the man has the right of it. Brandon will wed and his lady wife will be mistress of this keep. For a brief moment her mind turns to the example of their monarchs wedding brother to sister. A small shudder shakes her. “Very well, aster; be it as you say.”

His kindness does not dissipate. “Do not despair, lady. The world is not so bleak nor so horrid that you should fear what is natural progress to all young women, be they highborn or not.” Her father would approve, she thinks, of this handling.

“The flaw in your argument, good maester, is one of some import. Progress entails renouncing claims to what came before. I find I cannot renounce, and in doing so am unable to progress.” She hoped he understands, because she herself vows that it gets more difficult for her by the moment. “Yet if it is my father’s will I shall leave my home for whatever other dwelling he chooses.” At least there she will not have to deal with her mother. That will be a relief.        

And truly, Storm’s End is not quite as magnificent as Winterfell,  but there is bound to be some beauty to admire. The keep is likely busy enough that she shan’t have to see more of her husband than strictly necessary. Poor consolation as that is, it gives her something to cling to.

“The matter is settled then. I leave you to your other tasks, my lady.” Walys retreats with customary grace, his eyes lingering but a moment upon her. Lyanna shakes her head, hoping to dislodge all distracting thoughts. Stannis and her marriage are pushed to the back of her mind. It can all wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“Branda!” Lyanna freezes mid-motion, the loaf of bread in her hands. Her teeth gnash together in irritation and an irrational urge to throw the thing at the woman swells to life. She nevertheless resists her baser impulses and turns slowly. More so to give herself time.

“Aye?” She looks naught like the sister. Why does mother insist on calling her so? Flour dusts the hem of her work kyrtle; even an apron cannot salvage the poor put-upon thing. Lyanna concentrates on counting how many washes will be needed to get the excess of white out of her hair. Anything to avoid the cheerful gaze of her lady mother.  

“He wrote.” She still refuses to look up, instead moving her attention to the dough on the table. “He’s coming back.” The barely contained excitement makes her stomach roil and her heart pound, her pulse is in a frenzy all of its own. She reaches for the dough, sinking her fingers into the accepting mass, clenching. “You’ll speak to our lady mother, won’t you?” Of course her aunt had been part of it. Lyanna wondered if she truly needed to answer. “Only this once.”

“I will see to it.” She tries to imagine defying her father’s will. She tries to recall her mother’s words upon unburdening herself to the woman. A pity she’d not been keeping any manner of journal in those days. She continues meantime with her erstwhile task. There must be something they can do to keep her out of the way. It is not the done thing, but surely given the situation the woman could be locked in her chambers with some much needed draught to help her rest. The thought worms its way deeper and deeper into her mind. Father will never accept. Lyanna bites back a sigh and dusts her hands on the apron. “If there be naught else, I have some matters to see to.”

“What I cannot understand, daughter, is why you insist on being in the kitchens. Lady Lyarra wrinkled her nose. “A lady had servants for such tasks.”

“Bethany is old, her joints pain her and I see no danger in an hour or so spent in the kitchens.”  At least when in her right mind her lady mother is no more pleasant. That would make her feel bad for wishing the woman to perdition. As matters stand she need not feel the veriest graceless wretch. “Have you not always said that idle hands are a curse, lady mother?”

“I did not mean to encourage drudgery on your part. There are tapestries enough for you to labour over if you must.” Before she can make any manner of response which even begins to encompass her ire with such words, the door leading to one of the lower baileys opens.

“My lady,” he speaks, hands on his knees, clearly in need of a few moment, “riders. Riders are coming.”

“And that is why you do not grace the kitchens with your hands,” her mother snaps at Lyanna in the next moment. “Now how can you possibly greet our guests?”

Lyanna rolls her eyes. “If it please my lady, I can don a veil. The Southron womenfolk find it much in fashion.” Her mother is already questioning poor Hal, who has just regained his breath. Without waiting for an opinion, Lyanna slips away, calling one of the servant women to finish up for her.    

She makes it to her chamber just in time for Daisy to gasp at the sight of her. “My lady,” she chided gently, “you ought to have sent me to the kitchens.” She hurries around the small table, making straight for the chest at the foot of the bed as Lyanna draws her worn shapeless tabard over her head. The work kyrtle follows.

Meantime Daisy lays out a kyrtle a sight more cheerful. Lyanna catches sight of silver-embroidered hems and sighs. “The blue tabard over,” she urges without a second glance.

“Are you certain, my lady? Dust is bound to show on it.” Lyanna shakes her head, certain that a spray of peddles and some dust will not prove fatal. And if it does she only has to change. “About your hair,” the woman trails off, her attention stolen by a particular crespine.  

“I have thought about that as well. The veil will have to do for now, Daisy. Whoever comes is bound to know about Robert, and if they do not, they shall find out soon enough. How would it look for them to see me bedecked in all my finery?” The Baratheons have their pride and the war is not lost yet. “The copper circlet will do.”

It is Daisy’s turn to sigh. Lyanna pretends ignorance as she walks over to the stand where clean, fragrant water waits for her. She hurries with the washing, careful and precise. Daisy brings over a clean chemise over which she dons her kyrtle. She eyes the blue tabard with its black wolves dancing around the undefined waistline. “My black cloak, Daisy.” The veil and circlet are donned next.

Scatterbrain that she is, Lyanna only manages to take a few steps towards the door before her attention is called to the fact that she wears no stockings and her feet are protected only by thin-soled slippers. She sighed out loud and returns to Daisy who is holding up a pair of long stocking. She pulls one on after the other while her tiring woman secures the garters. The sturdy shoes her servant recommends are a pair of boots. “You never know when you’ll have to sit a horse, my lady.” That she hasn’t even considered.

A knock on the door alerts her that she ought to be on her way. Lyanna takes her leave of Daisy and hurries down the hall, tugging on her skirts to hold them out of the way. She prays she won’t end up sprawled at the foot of the stairs. The last thing she needs is a twisted ankle or a cracked skull.

“There you are,” her mother chides. “A few moments longer and I would have been forced to excuse your absence.” That is not at all true. Lyanna frowns. At least her mother isn’t calling her Branda and demanding to know about her damned lover.

They step together into the bailey which is set to accommodate the newly arrived guests if only for the duration of proper greetings. Short-of-breath once more, Hal approaches with a deep bow. He gestures to an early arrival surrounded by stable hands. “A missive from His Grace, the Prince Rhaegar.” He hands her the folded parchment and takes a step back.

Her mother seems more interested in gazing straight ahead and Lyanna’s suspicions begin to rise. However, she has a missive to read. She unfolds it gently and unhurriedly peruses the bold lines, Maester Walys once told her one can gain much knowledge by another’s hand. But then princes do not write their own correspondence unless absolutely necessary. She concentrates on the meanings. “Call the man to me.” The messenger comes. He is tall and broad up close. Lyanna would have thought boys better suited to this task. Gingerly, she whispers to Hal to have her lady mother taken within. She remains with the servants and the stranger. “Who exactly would His Grace have us look after?” His missive only begs the boon itself.

“Some of his father’s men that have fallen into his hands. My lady need only house them in the dungeons.” Something in the man’s gaze makes her insist. He hesitates before bowing low . For a moment she thinks he will say naught more, but then he whispers, “Among them is the man who slew my lady’s betrothed. Ser Arthur Dayne.” She supposes it ought to bring some relief that it was such a great hand which slew Robert. For all that Lyanna’s chest pains her in a strange way when she thinks of having Robert’s killer under her roof. Of course the Prince wouldn’t disclose that much. She feels remorse for having asked.

She waits patiently for the party to arrive. They fly the Prince’s banner, which in truth does not distinguish itself from his father’s. Ser Dayne is not the only prisoner, but he is nevertheless pointed out to her by the helpful messenger whom she has kept at her side. “The man at his right is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.” Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull.

“And the man who bring them all?” She recognises by his coat of arms that he is a Hightower himself and wonders what he must feel like.

“Ser Baelor Hightower, my lady.” And the prince trusts him enough to send him on the road with his kin as prisoner. Will the wonders never cease?

Ser Baelor Hightower, however, dismounts his horse and makes towards her. Another knight of impressive size. Lyanna lifts her chin and stares expectantly as he looks about the courtyard. At long last he bows to her and speaks.

“Be not ill at ease, ser knight,” she speaks, struggling to keep the smile from reaching her face. She does not quite manage that. “I understand you have come by His Grace’s order.”

“Are you perchance Lord Stark’s daughter?”

“That I am.” His face colours and he gives a bow.   


	2. ii - flows as water

### 278 AL

 

 

 

 

 

 

_I stand before the great men of our time and feel myself insignificant._

Lyanna keeps her eyes upon the thick soup in her bowl, thinking that the sickly green colour must be very akin to the wildfire. She likewise wonders whether Ser Baelor finds the comparison an apt one, but dares not voice such thoughts. Not in the presence of her placid lady mother and certainly not before the careful gaze of Maester Walys, who while doing his best to seem disinterested, is clearly eager to bring the meal to an end. For her own part, Lyanna wishes the affair at an end as well. There is very little Ser Baelor is willing to speak of and without any of her brothers to draw him into conversation, she finds it wise not to prod.

Doubtlessly, at some point or another, she will be informed that her lord father has hatched some plan or another concerning her future and she is to follow the path he indicates. Should the gods favour her, she shan’t have another Robert waiting for her at the end of that road. From beneath her lashes, she eyes Baelor Brightsmile and cannot help but admire the man.

“And tell us, good ser,” her lady mother maintains the stream of conversation, only half-done with her bowl of soup, “is there anything you may tell us of Lord Stark and my sons?” The she-wolf of Winterfell was on the prowl. Lyanna almost smiled to see the man’s attention sharpen upon her lady mother’s open invitation. She wonders if he would fall for the obvious ploy and decided that it should quite tarnish her admiration of his good form were that the case.

“A great many things may be said of Lord Starks and his sons,” their guest answers. For a brief moment, Lyanna holds her breath. The silence stretches as Ser Baelor picks up his cup of wine and takes a sip, prolonged by the fact he lingers for yet another. The cup finds its way back upon the table. “All of them tales of war, I fear. It is not cheery conversation one may easily hold over a nourishing trencher filled with food.”

An elegant delivery. But even better, he has circumvented further pestering on that score while denying her lady mother a source of joy. Would that she had easiness about her manner which might permit her to engage the man. As it is, she contents herself with praising him silently and thinking that while she may not join her brothers on any field of battle, there was yet some good she could do.

“And so we are to learn naught of your father and brothers, Lyanna. What could be more vexing?” That particular question Lyanna leaves waiting for an answer. She reachs out for a thick slice of bread and makes a show of considering the words. She can think of several things more vexing within a moment’s length.

“I think might be Ser Baelor must be given his due, lady mother. He doubtlessly thinks to spare our sensibilities.” Whether her response garners a shred of approval is up to interpretation, yet Lyanna feels rather proud of herself. It is one of her finer moments, she thinks, the last of her soup finally drained.

The second course is equally disappointing in nature. Ser Baelor cleverly evades her mother’s questions. Lyanna does her best to answer with as little meaning as possible, and Maester Walys doesn’t know precisely how to stem the flow of conversation. So much for the vaunted gifts of men of the Reach. And best of all, for once she needn’t bother herself about her lady mother. Lyanna enjoys the moment of peace, knowing that all good things are ultimately cursed with too short a span and she will miss it once life reasserts itself.

“Lady Lyanna, you have grown awfully silent,” the good maester notes after what has to have been long moments of quietness on her part. “Does aught trouble you?”

“I daresay I am no more troubled than I have right to be,” she replies gently, spearing a mushroom anaemically. “Talk of war does unsettle one so.” And the helplessness certainly helps none. Would that she might do more than simply sit with a quill in her hand all day and chronicle the affairs of Winterfell. Alas, that thought brings back the memory of her aunt’s words. For a brief moment she wars with her initial reaction. Years of tempering herself come to her aide and she manages the feat with no one being the wiser. Which is just as well, her mind whispers, as weakness will not be tolerated.

“You do look a tad wan.” This from her mother. Lyanna sharply looked up, wondering at the sudden concern. But the gods know the woman is an excellent mummer. One day, might be not in the too-distant future, she hoped she will have honed her talent to a like level.        

“I am well,” she insists, continued doggedly with her meal. While her skill is certainly one born of need rather than a gift of nature, perfecting the craft must count for aught. Otherwise a great many talented people would have assumed rule. She can see no such evidence of innate talent, however, and is thus forced to assume the opposite. For the time being, in any event. These assumptions are in themselves tricky. Lyanna considers the possibility of being mistaken as some any knight considers the remote possibility to slaying a giant and hides a smile behind her hand. No one watches her as all eyes are trained upon their guest.

Maester Walys has steered the conversation onto the safe topic of grain and Ser Baelor agrees that the year’s crop has been a good one and it is indeed a pity it should all be spoiled by the unforeseen circumstances. But at least there is no shortage of food and that helps tremendously. Unfed soldiers must be a hazard all of their own. Lyanna mulls over the North’s meagre production of grain as a general rule. Her father has been warning that luck would not hold out for an eternity and they ought to fill their coffers to the brim in anticipation of a harsh winter.

 So passes the evening meal until there are no more words to exchange and no other foods to eat. Thus Lyanna finds herself freed of her mother’s company with one look from the maester and elects to approach Ser Baelor on her own. There is one question she wishes to put to him and would fain know from his own lips what she might expect.

“A moment of your time, ser,” she requests, her manner as gentle as she is troubled inside. She smiled. “If you might spare it, of course.” He gave her his attention along with his arm, nodding his head in a rather stern manner.

“But only a moment, fair hostess, for I do not think I could withstand more.” The gallant remark is joined by an equally chivalrous gesture of lifting her other hand to his lips. The manner is far too intimate and nothing at all in the vein of the simply admiration a Northerner might express. She feels her cheeks heat and her heart gallops in her chest.

“I shan’t turn cruel.” The promise flows from her lips in spite of her lack of knowledge regarding her degree of cruelty. Can she be cruel to begin with? To a man such as the one before her? “If only you would answer me a small question.” His expression turns wary, the blue of his eyes freezing over like the surface of a lake in deep winter.  Whatever rests beneath the thin layer of ice she cannot determine. In turn, her fingers tremble upon his arm. “What manner of man is Ser Arthur Dayne?”

The ice does not thaw. But something shifts in that stare, it wiggles and pokes at the barrier between them. “Not that much different from a great number of other men. He is an excellent soldier and a skilled man-at-arms; few can match their blade against his. And few enjoy the degree of admiration that he does.” He mellows some as they make for the stairs and one of the servant girls scurries past them. Another older servant woman is standing in the entrance of one of the chambers, her eyes glued to them. “And he shall likely fetch a great sum once his brother has been contacted.”

“So His Grace does not mean to put a blade to his throat?” She doesn’t know whether she is relieved or incensed. That man cut Robert down. He guarded the Mad King as the man imposed his will on those weaker than he and helpless. This man, so admired throughout the kingdoms, has stood by and allowed free reign to a tyrant. On the other hand, heavy is the hand of a king. And life is dearest when in danger. Arthur Dayne is a knight, born to follow orders, to bow his head and follow whatever path he is set upon. 

“Much blood has already been spilled.” That is not precisely an answer. And it is the best answer she could hope for in these circumstances. The meaning of it sinks into her, stabbing until it reaches bone and the going further, breaking the thin shell protecting marrow. It radiates back without, from bone to blood, to flesh. Shaken she brings a hand to her chest, pressing upon that troublesome organ which flutters and jumps in its cage, the dance painful.

Lyanna meets his gaze and holds it. “And much shall be spilled from this day forth.” Surprise burns bright for a brief moment before it is suffocated beneath the heavy hand of habit. “I wonder that you can think so well about a man who would have thought little of cutting you down on the field of battle.”

“Would that I had met him on the field of battle, lady. I should have liked crossing swords with him. Alas, the song of steel did not grace me in such a manner. On the battlefield, he is my enemy. But even enemies can show an appreciation for each other.” It sounds like a level-headed thing to say, almost as though she were listening to her middle brother and not a man she had not seen before this day. “Had we thought him a lesser man, he might well have been shortened by a head. A man may stand for a cause one disagrees with; but that he stands for it is no less admirable in him than it is in one’s comrades.”

“A strange sentiment, ser. Might be ‘tis simply beyond a woman’s power to claim understanding upon such matters.” Clamouring for blood, her pride sets itself against the wall of his composure, as thought it might become aliferous and shoot over the highest crests of the barricade, effectively vanquishing even the smallest, most remote of his good opinion on the knights he’d brought as captives.     

Ser Baelor laughs heartily. “I would not dream to make such claims about the entirety of your sex, my lady. There is no danger, I suppose, in this obstinacy. After all, it is an honour to be so well remembered that no amount of conciliatory sentiment soothes the wound.”

“Some men deserve to be honoured.” Not Robert, but some men. She cannot say that to Ser Baleor’s face. “Might be there is a reason for it, ser. Might be the woman, weak as she may be in the face of man’s violence and the vicissitudes of fate, may yet make herself worthy of admiration by the conviction of her attachment.”

The man produces a thoughtful sound. “I have never looked at it in such a light. The conviction of her attachment, you say. I enjoy it tremendously. Would that I were as fortunate to inspire like sentiment in some maiden’s breast.”  A sigh leaves his lips, the kind that speaks of wistful thinking. A man such as him must steer tenderness in the breast of many a maiden. “Might be ‘tis simply you that is beholden to such notions, my lady. In my experience, the fair sex is no more and no less firm in matters of attachment than men.”

“It depends on the sort of man, does it not? Why attempt moral rectitude when the other party cares naught for such displays. The only difference is that one’s transgression is judged harsher than the other’s.” They are approaching his bedchamber and she supposes it would be unwise to linger.

“The point of morality is that is ought to be acted upon on principle alone,” the knight counters, voice deceptively soft. “I think, my lady, might be you have not know a great many deal of women or men. The North is so remote and it cannot be easy to come upon company.”

Flushing with indignation, Lyanna bites back an angry retort. “You must think me dreadfully outspoken and ill-mannered besides. To top of it, I am naive as well. What a poor company you have found in me.”

“Certainly not. One should own one’s opinions and it cannot be ill-mannered to be sincere. As for the other, one is allowed innocence when one is young.” His manner dithers from stern to relaxed once more. “There is something wonderful about an untarnished mind and some blunt honesty. The more power one has, you see, the less one hears the truth.”

“You have known many women, then ?” she asks. “And men?” He is a courtier. Of course. He must have met a rather lot of people. But does he truly know; that is where her interest lies.

“In my father’s home, for a certain,” he puts forth. “And at court I’ve come in contact with an even greater number of both men and women. There is quite a variety.” There is little she may say to that. It is foolish to declare herself more knowledgeable than a man with his experience. “Which sort are you then, my lady; do you follow the prescripts of common wisdom, or do you bend rules to your will?”

They’ve long since passed the bedchamber and have come in some sort of a circle, bringing the couple of them to another door leading into the gardens. A fair distance away, naturally, but there is a pretty xyst which they could walk as they speak. She steers them towards it, considering her answer. “The armour that has not seen battle is handsome, indeed.  I should like to say I am everything that is good and right, but I fear the gods might strike me for such daring.” She glances up at the twining branches. They are bared of leaves and all the flowers are gone. When winter is spent, the leaves will return and the flowers will bloom once more. She wonders with whom she’ll walk this very path.

“You are a peculiar creature.” Uncertain whether it is meant as a compliment or not, Lyanna does not reply. “Had I met your like a few years past, I might have well been a very happy man.” Again his voice takes on that quality, that something which is ineffable. “You are not long past your childhood, I perceive.”

“Not so long,” Lyanna agrees, feeling a rush of something. Their eyes meet and hold. Beneath marcid limbs there should be no place for softness. She draws back, swearing to bury these manner of thoughts away. He looks upon her as one might a child that much is clear. She amuses him; he finds some entertainment in her conversation. “But long enough that I would have been a bride upon the end of this conflict.”

“You regret the missed chance.” It is not put as a question, but she hears, nevertheless, the echoes of uncertainty. Lyanna does not hesitate in dismissing it. She is perhaps much too firm and curt in her denial, but that has to do with imagining herself Robert’s wife, mistress of his home and mother to his children.

“The gods give and the gods take and in timely fashion I am certain they shall reveal a path to me.” But where does it go? Now that is the truly pressing question. “Do you believe in chance then, ser?” Through the splinters and cracks, a gust of wind hooks its fingers into her skirts and hair. Its hold is weak. Its tug pathetic.

“No more than any other man. The great things, I perceived, are fated, but in all small matters we have our own counsel to rely upon.” The articulate performance leaves her perturbed. ”Might be that is our tragedy. That all the immediate decisions rest upon our shoulders. Destined to commit blunder after blunder, without knowing what fate reserves us.”

These are deep waters. Waters into which she does not wish to dive, nor even dip her feet within. “Have you considered it is best not to know, ser? If fate were to decree that I die in childbed, I should not wish to know of it. After all, it cannot help matters.”

“You mean that it might make you shy away from motherhood altogether?” One hears of such sad tales from time to time, that mother and babes succumbed to the touch of death, that naught survived them other than a trunk or two that would be hidden away in order to make place for a new mistress of the house. 

 “Not at all. That is to say, I would not value my life above any babe’s of mine. After all, good ser, one day I shall die regardless. But if I am to go, I should at least like to leave something behind.” She shrugs in the face of such grim realities. “I only mean that it would break my heart to not see the child grow. It would break any mother’s heart, I don’t doubt.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It is a very likely thing that he should return soon enough. While Ser Baelor was indeed charged with bringing the captives, they are in your father’s hand. Aside from that, he’s given three sons to the cause and may not be chided for going back on his word.”  Maester Walys positions himself so that he might look over her shoulder. “But that is neither here nor there. The servants have seen you with Ser Baelor.” The servants talk too much.

“And so I have been. We discussed at lengths and hopefully I have been found adequate company.” She deliberately keeps her voice light. There is no need to allow this man to see the depths of her soul. Whelved she is safe. “He seems a good sort.”

“Baleor Brightsmile they call him.” She’s heard, and she approves the name. The man has a wonderful smile. It truly opens him in a way no confession could. Well, that is in the manner one opens to admiration. She still thinks herself better off for having delved into the depths of his mind. “He is yet unwed.”

“Is that so?” She has heard this as well. The servants talk entirely too much. Especially if they are of the female variety and a handsome guest happens to be about. “And does his marital status concern us, maester?”

“Would you take it poorly if it did?” She shrugs. While he is a sight better than Robert, she does not know the man well enough to say whether she would enjoy marriage to him. “It would be as good a match as any, alas, my lady, your lord father thinks it appropriate that we wait afore we set any other alliance into motion.”

“My lord father can be exceedingly wise when it suits him.” Would it be too much to hope he waits until the war draws to a close? One dead betrothed is enough. Two would set tongues to wagging and she does not wish to be taken as some sort of ill omen. Fortune is fickle enough as is. “There, I have finished,” she says, drawing slightly away from her work.

“That is good, my lady. You needn’t have grouped them in such former a fashion.” He checks her work with great diligence, declaring himself pleased. “Before long you shall be doing as I, pouring over ledgers that the maester of your own keep has written.”

“Who can say as to that?” But then she can recognise the wisdom in his words. Maester Walys is devoted to her father’s cause, but she doubts all masters feel the same for the masters they serve. Sloppy service with regards to records keeping would not be the worst crime they could commit. “I am quite comfortable being the one under scrutiny.”

“Never fear, my lady; you shall forever have the scrutiny of others upon you. That is simply human nature, to be curious and to satisfy ourselves with regards to said curiosity.” He leaves his current position. “I think it has been quite enough for one day. You may seek your own chambers if it please you.”

Disenthralled from the drudgery of records and numbers, Lyanna lifts herself out of the chair and leaves the good maester to whatever other work occupies his time. She finds her way down the corridors not to her own chamber, but rather to the same xyst she had walked earlier with Ser Baelor. ‘Tis past the setting of the sun and the wind blows harsh. Without a cloak, the cold pervades, defeating all the layers of kyrtle and shift and cotehardie.      

Lorn though the flowers may be, she cannot help but catch their scent, redolent, and shiver. It is an axiomatic thing that they are not truly returned, she is merely conjuring the memory, a pale shade to the reality. But even so, it holds such strong claim over her. It has often mystified her that one could be so caught in the grip of some thought and make it as reality. The salient point is, of course, that such exercises are futile. What is not simply cannot be. Lyanna sighs and rubs her eyes. She thinks of the many things which cannot be and wishes she were quite as virid as Ser Baelor assumes. Or rather as she has led him to assume.

Not one of her best moments, she thinks, without remorse. Her nature while not gerful is still somewhat of a weapon all of its own. She cannot help the rough edges and their cutting touch. Glaucous branches weave and bob in the wind their dance seeming almost jubilant. Had she known no better she would have thought there was cause for happiness. As if, she shrugs her own cloak forlorn care away and turns her attention to the one matter she has been thus far avoiding. She will need to reach some manner of decision. A resolution, that is what is needed.

Lyanna abandons the walled pathway for the warmth of the keep. There is no danger in a closer acquaintance, she believes, to the famed knight who slew Robert. Not in her own home, for certain; she has the men of Winterfell to protect her and knows herself safe. But is there some manner of danger to her heart? Can any man see right through her and decipher she had been pretending a grief she does not feel. Does that even matter?

Say that Ser Dayne truly does see through her thin veneer. Would he care enough to bring such up in anyone’s presence? Would that reflect poorly enough upon her that she should suffer at a later date? At least Robert was never her husband. It has to be a lesser crime to feel no grief over the death of one’s betrothed than it would be to feel naught upon the demise of one’s husband. She must see him still, she thinks, whatever the outcome. While she does not and never did mourn Robert, she yet has a duty. To know the manner of his death is imperative.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
